The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

by Val St. Crowe

  * * *

  There’s a big discussion after we find Vincent about what to do with him. I’m in favor of simply leaving him there and reporting it to the police. After all, the police deal with berserkers. They can’t possibly finger us. I also think a pack of killer berserkers is something that the public should know about. But Tommy doesn’t think that’s a good idea, because he says we want to avoid any kind of police entanglements with the Calabrese family. He says the police will be suspicious of any call we make to them. He says that they’ll be convinced we faked the berserker attack. He also says that we were planning on dumping a body tonight, so it shouldn’t be that hard to do it.

  We talk for a long time, but Tommy’s insistent, so eventually I cave in. Tommy’s been doing this longer than me. He knows what he’s talking about.

  What follows is disgusting, messy work for hours. But when we leave, there is no sign of what happened in Vincent’s apartment. Tommy and I drive garbage bags out to the place we were planning to take Vincent that night. We bury what’s left of him out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a long drive there and back. When we get back into town, it’s after two in the morning. I go home and shower, feeling numb and tired.

  I suppose I’m glad that I didn’t have to kill Vincent myself, but I also wish I’d never had to see a body destroyed the way Vincent’s was. I’m sure I’m going to have nightmares about it. For months.

  I come back into my room in my robe, and Brice is sitting on my bed.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask.

  He shows me his hand and blue sparks jump from his fingertips. “I have my ways.”

  It’s not good for him to be here, but I have to admit I’m glad to see him. After the horrors I’ve seen today, he is comfort and safety and familiarity. I sit down on the bed next to him. “I haven’t had a particularly great day, Brice.”

  He strokes tendrils of my wet hair. “Should I go?”

  He should go. I can’t bring sweet Brice into the violent, bloody mess my life has become. “No,” I say. “Don’t go.”

  He continues to stroke my hair, my cheek. “What made your day so bad?”

  Blood. The stench of death. My hands covered in... “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I miss you,” he says. “I wish you’d never quit the play. I was used to seeing you every day. Now you’re not there. And somehow, you not being there makes me realize how much I liked you being there.”

  I know what he means about being used to seeing him. “I miss you too.”

  We’re quiet then. Brice touches my face softly. I gaze at him, wishing I could just get lost in his eyes.

  “Olivia?” Brice says. “How many people have you killed?”

  I turn away. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Ten?”

  “Are you wearing a wire or something? Did the police get to you?”

  “More than ten?”

  “Brice, you can’t just ask me something like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It should, shouldn’t it? Knowing something like that about you should change the way I feel about you. But it doesn’t.”

  I turn back to him. “Less than ten. Less than five.” Only one. But it would have been two. It was going to be two. I didn’t have to kill Vincent, but I would have. How many people will I have to kill? What will it do to me? How many other bodies will I cut up and stuff in garbage bags? I’ve worked so hard to be tough and respected, but what if I simply can’t be tough enough? What if it always bothers me? Or worse. What if eventually it doesn’t bother me? Do I want to be that hard? That cold?

  “I got out of the root cellar tonight,” says Brice.

  “What?”

  “Nothing happened. I don’t think it did anyway. I came to about a block away. I left a bit of a trail from the cellar to where I woke up. Smashed hedges, broken flowers, things like that. But something could happen, you know. Someday, if something goes wrong, I could kill someone.”

  I take his hand and squeeze it. “It wouldn’t be the same thing, Brice. You wouldn’t know you were doing it.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be the same. It would be worse.”

  “No—”

  “Olivia, do you kill people for no reason?”

  I see his point. I shake my head slowly. “No. I only do it if it seems like the person is dangerous. If he’s hurt someone. If he’s going to hurt someone.” I squeeze his hand again. “But I still choose it, Brice. I’m responsible in a way you could never be.”

  “What if we’re just not that different, Olivia?” he asks. “What if all these excuses we keep making...” He swallows. “I don’t want to ask you to deal with my virus. But if I were ever going to ask a girl to deal with it, I can’t think of anyone better than you. If I got loose, and you couldn’t get me locked back up, you could kill me.”

  I rip my hand away from his. “Brice!”

  “No, I mean it. You could stop me from hurting someone. So maybe, in some ways, you’re just the kind of girl I need. But...I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  Offer me? “That’s not true. You make me feel things. And no one else does. You see me differently.”

  “That’s not enough,” he says.

  “You make me feel...” I don’t know how to talk about this. I feel embarrassed and confused. So I just kiss Brice instead.

  I half-expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He pulls me tight against him and kisses me back hard. We fall back onto my bed, our legs tangled up. Somehow, my robe is coming open, and Brice’s hands are inside the folds of it, on my skin. His touch feels like jolts of sweet lightning, like the magic sparks that spring from his fingers, and I let him run his hands all over me, even though I know I shouldn’t do that. I know that if I let him... it’s something bad.

  But Brice is somehow without a shirt then, and I’m out of my robe entirely, and we’re lying on my bed, our lips locked together, our tongues tickling each others’ tongues, our hands trailing over each other’s bare skin. And everything is exploding levels of pleasure, every second better than the next.

  Suddenly, Brice pulls away from me. He gets off the bed. He is shaking.

  He’s not touching me, and I remember more clearly. The virus. We can’t ever do that, because of the virus. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “We just...we have to be careful.”

  I get some pajamas out of my dresser and yank them on. Brice puts his shirt back on. He stands in the middle of the room, looking ready to bolt.

  I hug him. “Stay anyway,” I say. “Just sleep next to me?”

  “I—” He breaks off with a shaky laugh. “I don’t know if I can control—”

  “Of course you can,” I say. “I’ll help you.”

  As we settle under the covers in my narrow bed, I curl up against Brice’s shoulder. His arm curves around me. It’s dark in my bedroom, and I feel as if Brice and I are in a warm safe cave. “Thank you,” I whisper to him. “I needed this.”

  And that is what Brice Ventresca has to offer me. Himself. And now that I’ve got him so close to me, I don’t know if I want to let him go.